The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20 — John Shaqi
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20Stevenson, Robert Louis
General
The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson - Swanston Edition, Vol. 20
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
At that moment he laid a heavy, hard grip upon my shoulder; and whether
he said anything more or came to a full stop at once, I am sure I could
not tell you to this day. For, as the devil would have it, the shoulder
he laid hold of was the one Goguelat had pinked. The wound was but a
scratch; it was healing with the first intention; but in the clutch of
Major Chevenix it gave me agony. My head swam; the sweat poured off my
face; I must have grown deadly pale.
He removed his hand as suddenly as he had laid it there.
"What is wrong with you?" said he.
"It is nothing," said I. "A qualm. It has gone by."
"Are you sure?" said he. "You are as white as a sheet."
"O no, I assure you! Nothing whatever. I am my own man again," I said,
though I could scarce command my tongue.
"Well, shall I go on again?" says he. "Can you follow me?"
"O, by all means!" said I, and mopped my streaming face upon my sleeve,
for you may be sure in those days I had no handkerchief.
"If you are sure you can follow me. That was a very sudden and sharp
seizure," he said doubtfully. "But if you are sure, all right, and here
goes. An affair of honour among you fellows would, naturally, be a
little difficult to carry out; perhaps it would be impossible to have it
wholly regular. And yet a duel might be very irregular in form, and,
under the peculiar circumstances of the case, loyal enough in effect. Do
you take me? Now, as a gentleman and a soldier."
His hand rose again at the words and hovered over me. I could bear no
more, and winced away from him. "No," I cried, "not that. Do not put
your hand upon my shoulder. I cannot bear it. It is rheumatism," I made
haste to add. "My shoulder is inflamed and very painful."
He returned to his chair and deliberately lighted a cigar.
"I am sorry about your shoulder," he said at last. "Let me send for the
doctor."
"Not in the least," said I. "It is a trifle. I am quite used to it. It
does not trouble me in the smallest. At any rate, I don't believe in
doctors."
"All right," said he, and sat and smoked a good while in a silence which
I would have given anything to break. "Well," he began presently, "I
believe there is nothing left for me to learn. I presume I may say that
I know all."
"About what?" said I boldly.
"About Goguelat," said he.
"I beg your pardon. I cannot conceive," said I.
"O," says the major, "the man fell in a duel, and by your hand! I am not
an infant."
"By no means," said I. "But you seem to me to be a good deal of a
theorist."
"Shall we test it?" he asked. "The doctor is close by. If there is not
an open wound on your shoulder, I am wrong. If there is----" He waved
his hand. "But I advise you to think twice. There is a deuce of a nasty
drawback to the experiment--that what might have remained private
between us two becomes public property."
"O, well!" said I, with a laugh, "anything rather than a doctor! I
cannot bear the breed."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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